


Written in Silence

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Community: hl_shortcuts, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan's in trouble. His friends help him out. This is news?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silvercobwebs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=silvercobwebs).



> Beta thanks to [](http://tehomet.livejournal.com/profile)[**tehomet**](http://tehomet.livejournal.com/)  
> 

_Duncan holds his sword before him, at the ready, straining with every sense to discover his enemy's position. A sound almost too soft to hear, a deepening of shadow almost too dark to see, and Duncan whirls, his blade slicing downward. But his enemy rolls and kicks out, catching Duncan's knee with a blunt boot heel. Duncan grits his teeth and bears down with his sword, held off by the man on the ground, who rolls once more and comes up on his feet. He raises his sword again, but too late, too late. Duncan, his face strained with fury and some kind of primal joy, swings his sword two-handed and the blade slices through his enemy's neck._

 _The quickening begins. Duncan falls to the ground, shuddering as the ancient power enters him, electrifies his body with the essence of another immortal, dead but now alive in Duncan. Through the flash and flare he sees someone running towards him. He hears a cry of despair and grief. Staccato images beat against him like ghosts against a windowpane -- memories, not his own, collective and old -- and through them the sound of someone sobbing, a shadow leaning over a shadow, one silent and still, the other's immortal presence throbbing in Duncan's blood. Duncan forces his shattered muscles to move, to escape. He flounders and flails at the ground, the gravel, the mud, the shoreline. The other immortal raises his head from his dead companion, but Duncan is safe in the arms of the river. The waters close over him._

 _Then there is nothing but darkness and silence._

 _Eventually, the darkness lifts. The waters recede._

 _The silence remains._

#

  
To: adam5000  
From: Adevereaux

Duncan's in trouble. We're on the island. Come _at once_.

P.S.: Find out everything you can about Andre Gatineau and Jacques Fontaine

AD  


#

"How long has this been going on?"

Amanda jittered alongside Methos, a tightly-wound top ready to spin out of control. "God, it feels like years. But it only happened a week ago. He was challenged by what's-his-name." She waved her hands dismissively.

"Jacques Fontaine."

"Yes, him. Duncan took his head, and then another immortal showed up."

"Gatineau."

"Who would have taken Duncan's head right then, he thinks, while he was vulnerable. But he managed to slide into the river."

"Bright boy," Methos said approvingly.

"He came back from that okay, except for--" She closed her eyes briefly. "He said it was a hard quickening, but not the worst he's taken." They were both silent for a moment, each thinking about the worst quickening Duncan had taken.

Methos frowned. "And he's been able to hear nothing since?"

"Deaf as the proverbial post," Amanda said. "But there's more. The reason I talked him into coming here. To holy ground." She pressed her lips into a straight line and bunched her hands in her coat pockets.

"More?" As if that wasn't enough? Methos had never heard of such a thing. An immortal's senses were fairly well blasted to hell during a quickening -- he himself had had terrifying moments of blindness. But -- it was all moot. The healing came after, and voila. Good as new. "What else?"

"You'll see," Amanda said. "There he is."

And there he was. Methos felt the frisson of excitement he always felt at seeing Duncan. It had been a while since they'd been together. Nothing seriously wrong between them, just a slow drifting apart. He'd expected them to drift back together eventually. Amanda's call had brought him back sooner than he'd planned, but, he thought wryly, of course it would be trouble that did it. Nothing new there.

But there was something new about Duncan. Something in the weary set of his shoulders, in the way he stared into the distance as if he were the last man in the world, in the way he didn't welcome his friends or even respond to their presence. He looked at Amanda, whose face was tight and miserable. His foreboding deepened. Duncan didn't move until Methos put his hand on Duncan's shoulder -- then he started and sprang up from the bench, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Even here, on holy ground. Methos felt cold. _He didn't sense me coming_.

Duncan's face changed from fear to surprise to -- briefly -- pleasure, which was immediately overshadowed by a darker emotion, something that Methos rarely saw on his friend's face. Resignation.

"Bloody fucking hell," Methos said.  


#

Methos drummed his fingers on the table, thinking in strategies, plans, lines of attack. Amanda was full of hope for a cure, because she couldn't bear the alternative. She had become one of the most dogged researchers he'd ever seen. She curled up with a laptop for hours, searching and scanning the Watcher database (he should have known she'd hacked it) for clues, for something that would help. He left her to it. He went after the short-term problems. One, to shake Duncan out of the depression he could see behind his eyes; two, to get him back to combat readiness with two senses missing; and three, to learn how to just _talk_. Last problem first.

None of them knew the sign language of any country fluently. Duncan knew a little bit of American Sign Language; he still remembered most of the Sioux sign language and some scattered military signs that didn't really come in handy right now. He and Duncan could converse fairly well in the old sign system used by the monks of the silent orders. Methos was surprised either of them remembered any of it. Unfortunately, Amanda hadn't stayed long enough in the only silent order she had ever joined ("Long story, darling"), but she and Duncan shared a wealth of carny signs and thief's signals. Between the three of them they developed a sort of pidgin, drafting signs into their private vocabulary. But it was still hard.

Sometime you just had to write it down. Times when their signs and signals failed them. Modern monks might have signs for things like television and mobile phones and laptops, but neither he nor Duncan had been cloistered lately. Carny signs only went so far. They got little notepads, left post-its everywhere, wrote their conversations on tables covered with butcher paper. They'd sit in different rooms, tapping away at laptops -- or in the same room, sitting back-to-back on the rug near the fireplace -- texting and chatting companionably.

It was weird, Methos thought. But it worked.

On to problems one and two.

#

Duncan sat alone on the porch, looking out over the small valley in front of the cabin. It was twilight, the in-between time, the time when Duncan most felt the weight of the day and the darkness of the night. His favorite time was morning, full of light and promise, even after so many mornings, over so many lifetimes. One long lifetime.

It worried him how much the world receded when he stopped paying attention -- when he went off the alert. Reading, or mending something, or just thinking, it was as if he stopped focusing on the world, it simply ceased to exist. He was so used to locating people by sound -- by their voices, the small sounds they made as they moved around, even their breathing -- that they seemed to disappear when they left his field of vision. When they reappeared, seemingly out of thin air, he was startled. Then sheepish, then angry, though he tried not to show it. But he grew irritable and snappish, until he finally faced what he didn't want to admit: that if his friends could appear out of thin air, so could his enemies.

He felt the boards of the porch fairly bounce under him, and smiled at the way Amanda would clomp up behind him like a soldier on parade-ground, so he wouldn't jump out of his skin when she touched him. Amanda slid down next to him. Duncan didn't feel like talking -- or at least, didn't feel like working at listening, and Amanda seemed content just to sit close, so they sat companionably watching the autumn sunset. Peace, for a moment.

A sudden gust of wind blew up a whirlwind of dry leaves, and suddenly, to Duncan's surprise, everything seemed noisy. Senses confused, old cues mixed. He sighed, and Amanda squeezed his arm.

"I'll get the hang of it," he said.

"You're doing fine," Amanda said so fiercely it lifted his spirits.

"I may not be perfect--" he said seriously, and he saw Amanda bite her lip. "But parts of me are excellent!" They laughed at the old joke and Duncan rose, swung her up into his arms and carried her into the cabin.

#

 _Do the things he likes to do...._

Duncan stopped polishing his blade and frowned. _Wear your hair_ \--"Och, not again," he groaned, shaking his head vigorously.

Methos looked up from his book with a question on his face.

"Why do people think deafness is _quiet_?" Duncan said irritably. I've got this song in my head and can't get it out. By --" he frowned again. "Dusty Springfield?"

Methos said something.

"No, that's not it," Duncan said. Methos laughed, and Duncan sighed. "All right, what did you say?"

Methos said it again, more slowly.

The unfamiliar word looked strange on Methos's lips. "Ear? What?"

Methos finger-spelled it.

Duncan laughed. "Earworm. Good name for it. I think it's leaving holes in my brain."

"Get them all the time," Methos signed.

"Yes, but." Duncan sighed and picked up his polishing tools. "At least you can stick your earbuds in and dial up something else."

Methos leaned forward. "Think of another song," he signed. "Catchy, to drive out the other one. Concentrate."

"Right."

"Like 'The Hokey Pokey,'" Methos signed, with a glint in his eye. He tapped his right foot in a little dance.

\-- _You put your left foot in and you shake it all about_.

"Thanks a lot," Duncan said darkly.

"I aim to please." Methos grinned.

#

The four of them sat in Joe's bar. It was after hours. Amanda relaxed a bit in the familiar surroundings. The bar's location changed, but whether it moved across town or from one continent to another, the _place_ remained the same, the sense of coming home, of safety. She knew it was illusory, but there was something about the bar that touched her like holy ground.

Duncan had left the island the day before. So, Amanda and Methos followed. He wasn't entirely happy about that, but too bad. He needed them, and she wasn't leaving his side. Not until she found a way to make him whole again. _And I will_ , she thought fiercely.

He caught her eye and smiled. She glared at him. That made his smile wider. At least the lost look is gone, she thought, relenting and smiling back.

Joe brought them a round of drinks, and sat down at the table. "So," he pointed his beer at Methos. "Have you ever heard about immortals unable to sense each other? Because it's news to me."

Methos shrugged. "I've heard rumors, but never come across a reliable account." He looked at Duncan. "Until now."

"Well, I looked up your pair. There's a lot in the files, as you no doubt already know." He glared from Methos to Amanda. They blinked at him innocently. "But here's the thing. Andre Gatineau and Jacques Fontaine were, quote unquote, inseparable." He held up his hand, brought two fingers close together. He looked at Duncan, who nodded. Joe paused to take a drink, and placed the glass on the table in front of him carefully.

"Yes, well, we know they were close -- that's why Andre is after Duncan's head," Amanda said, signing along as she spoke.

"Yeah, they were--" he waved a hand. "A couple. Devoted to each other. Lived together for centuries. Unusual but not unheard of. What I mean is they were," he leaned forward and tapped the table for emphasis, " _inseparable_. They were _never_ seen separately. They never, as far as any of their watchers could ever see, left each other's sides. You get my drift?"

Duncan rubbed a hand over his face. "That explains a lot."

"Fontaine couldn't sense immortals," Amanda breathed. "So Andre never left him out of his sight. My God."

"I wonder..." Duncan said, and stopped. They all looked at him. "I wonder if he was like that from the beginning. Or whether he--."

Joe looked thoughtful. "Actually, he took the heads of another long-term couple -- a woman and a man -- around the same time he became joined at the hip with Fontaine. There was some triangle thing going on, according to the records. A challenge. A duel, really. He fought the man and won -- then the woman came after him. One or the other of them could have -- transmitted it to him, I guess. But not much is known about him until he hooked up with Fontaine, so it's hard to say."

Duncan nodded as Amanda finished translating. "That doesn't do me any good," he said ruefully.

"Maybe," Methos signed. "There has to be a way to break it, the way--" he stopped.

Duncan's face went still.

"I don't suppose you know of a magic well in Seacouver," Joe said, somewhat dryly. Duncan pressed his lips together.

"No, sorry." Methos turned the beer bottle between his fingers.

"Why did he attack me?" Duncan said, frowning. "It wasn't even a challenge -- just a wild strike out of the blue."

"There's stuff in the file," Joe said. "He's been behaving erratically lately. Gone a bit cuckoo." He made a twirling motion near his temple.

"Snapped, finally," Amanda said.

Duncan winced.

"I mean, it could have been something else. Immortals aren't the most stable people," Amanda went on quickly. "But," she glanced at Duncan, "I can imagine his... condition wearing him down after, you know, a century or two. It would get on anybody's nerves."

"We can psychoanalyze him all day," Methos said. "The relevant piece of information is that his partner is bent on revenge."

They all looked at Duncan. He bristled. "It's my fight. You can't protect me forever."

"I wouldn't dream of trying," Methos said, picking up his beer.

#

"I can take him, Methos," Duncan swung his sword in a graceful, lethal arc. They'd been training for three days. Sparring, sword practice, drills. Methos and Amanda would take turns coming at Duncan from behind, on different surfaces, in different places. He felt a fair bit of smugness in foiling most of their attempts, even to guessing which one was behind him. But Methos deflated him by pointing out that 'most times' didn't cut it.

"Humor me, MacLeod," Methos signed, ducking. "You're missing two senses. Two. That you rely on."

"They're not the worst ones I could be missing," Duncan said. "As long as I know an immortal is present..."

"That's a big if, Duncan," Amanda signed from the bench.

"They usually make themselves known," Duncan said mildly.

"This one might not." Methos realistically and rather gruesomely pantomimed skulking up behind someone to slit his throat.

"I'll have my helpful bodyguards with me to point him out." Duncan swung his sword again, impatiently. "Do you think I need ears to fight?"

"Helpful, ears." Duncan read on Methos's lips.

"Not always," Duncan pointed out. "Not when cannons are going off, the whole village is exploding and everyone around you is screaming."

"True," Methos admitted. "But--"

"But nothing. I've been deafened in the trenches, the Blitz, the jungle. You just fight through it. I've done it before. I can do it now. I--" Something fell around him, and he was jerked off his feet. He looked up from the floor of the dojo at Methos and Amanda, the latter looking annoyingly smug and holding the other end of the rope.

"Fine," Duncan said. "You've made your point."

"Good," Methos signed. He turned away, muttering.

Duncan raised himself on one elbow. "I heard that!"

#

Midnight. Witching hour. Bad idea to be out walking; they should have taken a cab from the bar. But Duncan was in one of his mulish moods. First of all, he wasn't hiding from anyone, and secondly, he was going to drink as much as he wanted and thirdly, he didn't want to be coddled. He always walked, by God, and he'd walk tonight. Methos was welcome to take a cab if he wanted to.

Duncan was mad, and Methos was an idiot for caving. Gatineau was out there -- no, scratch that. Methos felt the immortal presence grate down his spine. Gatineau was here.

Methos turned slowly, signaling to Duncan. Methos drew his sword and scanned the dimly-lit and deserted office buildings, the rooftops, the shadows that were empty a moment ago but seemed full of menace. He still couldn't yet see the other immortal. His skin crawled.

Duncan pointed. Methos's eyes focused on a narrow alleyway across the street. Yes, that could -- a man stepped out of the shadows into the streetlight, his sword gleaming in the yellow light. Methos signaled to Duncan, " _Run,_ " knowing it was futile even as he did it. Duncan just frowned and stayed put. Methos growled in frustration, wishing he'd brought his gun, though he wasn't sure his target would be Gatineau or Duncan. He felt Duncan draw himself up, and before Methos could do anything to stop him, Duncan stepped out of the shadows to meet the challenge.

Methos did the only thing he could think of. He walked out into the street with his sword before him. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!" His voice rang out at nearly the same time as Duncan's did.

Gatineau didn't back down, Methos had to give him that. He met the challenge as best he could, at first. But between being outnumbered and his confusion about which one of them was his quarry, he took the sensible way out and retreated from the field to fight another day.

"You cannot hide from me, Duncan MacLeod! You _tell_ him! You _hear_ me!" His shouts of rage hung in the air as he disappeared back into the shadows. Methos lowered his sword and turned to face Duncan.

#

"He's still not speaking to me," Methos said. "Is he talking to you?"

"Yes," Amanda said, rummaging in a box she'd brought with her. They were back on the island. Not because of him. Not because of Gatineau. They were back because Amanda had pitched a fit -- had made the most spectacularly histrionic _scene_ in Joe's bar that he'd ever witnessed her perform. She seemed to grow larger, she definitely grew louder, she was imperious, she was commanding, she was _haughty_. Duncan was a suicidal maniac. He was a _lunatic_. He was going to get himself _killed_. He was going to do what she told him to do whether he liked it or not, Do You Hear Me? They were returning to the island. Now.

Methos had been impressed.

Duncan had been contrite.

They had returned to the island.

"It's because you're prettier than me," Methos said.

"It's because I'm scarier than you."

"There's that. You scare me too."

"Good. Do you like these colors?" She held up a handful of pens. "Pick three."

"Yes, ma'am." Methos dutifully picked three colors, and Amanda stashed them in a bag. "What are those for?"

"They're to help get Duncan talking to you again," Amanda said.

#

Someone was in the room. Duncan could feel the bare feet gently pattering on the wooden floor, and guessed Amanda. He smiled as the arms snaked around his neck and down his chest -- slim and pale, small hands, fingernails painted fire-engine red. One of the hands held a bright blue pen, and before he could stop her, she'd scrawled a word on his arm: "Come."

"What?"

She put a finger to his lips, shaking her head. She tugged at his arm, and he gave in, standing up to follow her inside. She gave him her best 'Bed, now, Duncan darling,' smile and tugged him along. He saw no reason to resist. She led him into the bedroom.

Duncan stopped when he saw Methos lolling on the bed as if he owned it, but Amanda tugged his arm. Methos patted the bed beside him and signed, "Truce?" Amanda stood on his feet and grinned up at him winningly.

"You two cooked this up together," Duncan said, and as before, Amanda put her fingers over Duncan's lips.

"No talking, eh?" he said into her fingers.

Amanda smiled. He kissed her fingers and nodded. Okay. This had all the earmarks of a cheering-up-Duncan session, but all right. He looked from Methos on the bed to Amanda standing on his feet. It was working.

Amanda didn't waste any time. She industriously undressed Duncan, pushing him towards bed where Methos, rising at her signal, joined in. Duncan laughed as the two of them divested him of every stitch. "Thieves!" he said, which garnered him a cross finger-wagging from Amanda. She left him to Methos (who pulled off Duncan's shoes and dragged his jeans down over his ankles) while she rummaged on the bedstand. Triumphantly she bounced back onto the bed, holding a finger up to pause the action (Methos let go of Duncan's boxers with a snap) and with the flourish of a carnival magician, fanned out three brightly colored pens before Duncan's face.

She tapped each one in turn: Blue? Green? Purple?

Duncan smiled bemusedly and chose blue. It was a thick pen, like a Sharpie, but -- he held it to his nose -- it smelled nicer. Flowers? Soap? He couldn't tell. Duncan uncapped it and Amanda's eyes glittered. "Silly," he wrote across one elegant kneecap. Amanda grinned.

Amanda chose the purple pen for herself and handed the green one to Methos. He smiled, uncapped it, and bending over Duncan, wrote "Off !" just under his navel and drew an arrow pointing downward. Duncan laughed as the two of them each hooked their fingers into the elastic and pulled downwards. His already-hard cock sprang out and the looks on both of their faces made him feel giddy. Methos tapped his pen thoughtfully in his palm, eyeing Duncan's erection, and Duncan covered himself.

More finger-wagging from Amanda made his hand fall away, and Methos leaned over casually to scrawl something on his cock. It tickled. He craned to see what Methos had written, since whatever it was, it had made Amanda explode in mock outrage. She slapped Methos's hand away and wrote up and down Duncan's cock in tiny, ticklish words. Methos seemed about to retaliate, but Duncan held them both back. He looked down. His cock was covered in one word, written in big loopy scrawl and in tiny, insistent letters: Mine mine mine mine mine.

When he could breathe again, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, he took up his pen and wrote the same word on them. On Amanda's cheek. On Methos's palm. He settled back on the pillows and waited.

They took up their pens, and they wrote. They wrote on his skin, always where he could read it, where he could see what they were writing. They wrote silly things, they wrote serious things, they wrote snippets of poetry, they wrote knock-knock jokes. They ransacked Amanda's stash of pens for all the colors in the world and they covered his body with words.

Duncan pantomimed very seriously that they were wearing far too many clothes. Amanda looked at Methos. He shrugged and pulled his sweater over his head, while Duncan and Amanda watched admiringly. He stood up to unbelt, unzip, pull down his jeans, bending over to moon them. He returned to the bed, naked and as hard as Duncan, which both Duncan and Amanda noted with pleasure.

Both male heads swiveled to gaze at Amanda.

She started a slow striptease, but ended up pulling off her clothes every which way, making Methos laugh. She threw her bra at him, and he caught it and dropped it over his side of the bed, looking smug.

Duncan took up his pen, and with a quick flourish, drew a Japanese character over Amanda's heart. She twisted her head to look at it, and then looked a question at him. "Your name," he signed. "In my heart." Amanda smiled. Methos looked a little envious, until Duncan shifted on the bed to face him, and drew another character over Methos's heart.

Methos looked at Duncan for a long time, his eyes glinting. "Sphinx," Duncan wrote on his thigh. Methos looked so serious that Duncan was taken aback. Then he smiled. "Thinking," he signed. "Oldest word?"

Duncan felt a little chill. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how old Methos was. Probably because it was so hard to imagine it.

Methos laughed suddenly. "I don't _remember_ the oldest word," he signed, rolling his eyes. "I'm not that old." He looked thoughtful again. "Maybe," Methos placed his hand on Duncan's stomach, "this." And he drew around his fingers, leaving his handprint on Duncan's skin.

Amanda was instantly captivated by this, and busily worked at covering Duncan's body -- and one cheek -- with her handprints. She only stopped when Methos took her in his arms and splayed his hands across her back, letting Duncan draw around them. Amanda loved that, too.

She settled in the V of Duncan's legs. She took up her pen and, starting high up on Duncan's inner thigh, began to write. _Licence my roving hands, and let them go..._ and handed the pen to Duncan.

Duncan smiled, and sat up, motioning Methos closer. Duncan wrote from his groin to his chest. _Before, behind, between, above, below_. Methos took the pen and held his hand out to Amanda. When she placed her hand in his, he pulled her arm towards him and wrote, _What need'st thou have more covering than a man?_ Amanda threw back her head and laughed, and the three of them were tumbling together on the bed, hands and lips and tongues busy, laughing against each other's hands, laughing and kissing, laughing and thrusting, laughing and moaning against each other's skin and words.

When they came to rest, Duncan looked from the words on his body to those written on Amanda, and those written on Methos, all in different hands, and different colors, looping script, neat brown curlicues that looked like henna, dark blue scrawls that looked like prescriptions, words in French, words in Italian, words in Chinese characters, in Greek, in something that looked older than hieroglyphs. The words seemed to move on their skin the way they lived in their hearts. The words became blurred, from the sweat of bodies rubbed together. They wrote new words. Duncan had lost track of who wrote what, but it didn't matter.

He sat up on his heels and looked down at them both for a long moment, until their faces turned serious. He smiled once more and once more took up a pen. _Oh my America_ , he wrote on Methos, and on Amanda, _my new found land_.

#

Methos was awakened from a pleasant dream -- all his favorite words strung together like beads on silken thread -- by Amanda shaking him vigorously. "What, what?" he huffed into the pillow.

"Duncan's gone!" Amanda's voice was shrill.

He winced, then struggled to sit up. "Gone?" He sounded a bit shrill himself.

"He's gone to meet Gatineau. Look!" There were words scrawled on the sheets next to where each had slept. "'We must fight our own battles, you and I.' Trite, MacLeod." Then why was his mouth so dry? He read Amanda's. "'With my shield or on it, my Lady.'

"We have to find him! Call Joe! He might know where he'd go. His watcher -- I'll beat it out of him if I have to!"

"Not necessary," Methos said, as he pulled on his jeans. "I know where he'll be."

"Where?" Amanda looked like she wanted to beat it out of him.

"At the bridge. Bottom of the hill. Just outside holy ground. No doubt Gatineau's been lurking there for days. Wait for me!" he called after her as she dashed from the room. "I'm too old for this," he muttered.

#

Gatineau was already on the bridge when Duncan arrived, sword at the ready. Duncan heard no sound, felt no immortal buzz, but his body hummed with the familiar anticipation and muted terror he always carried into battle. He faced his enemy; he raised his sword.

#

Methos was still pulling on his jeans as he left the cabin, just in time to see Amanda disappear around the bend in the path. No doubt she was armed to the teeth, but he grabbed sword, gun, and dagger before sprinting after her.

As he rounded the bend, he saw Amanda appear at the edge of the bridge, but she stayed back, dancing nervously at the sidelines. Methos loped down the hill to join her, feeling the immortal buzz crawl over his skin, adding to the gooseflesh that rose at the sight of Duncan at his best and most terrifying. Through all his panic and fear for Duncan, he couldn't help but admire his skill as he fought -- no movement wasted, no opening missed; focused, deliberate, and deadly. Yet at the same time he moved with such grace, as poised and elegant as if he were a dancer and not fighting for his life.

Still, Methos drew his gun.

Amanda circled this way, then that, watching avidly for any sign the fight was going against Duncan. It could go either way, Methos realized, his heart pounding. Gatineau was -- almost -- a match for Duncan. Methos wasn't sure whether he had an advantage over Duncan or not, now they were both in the open and fighting. But he was good enough for worry.

Even as he had the thought, it started to go wrong. Duncan went down, rolling as the other man hacked and hacked at him, slashing Duncan's coat to ribbons but not connecting with flesh.

Methos still held the gun. He moved in.

Amanda was suddenly close, her voice urgent in his ear. "Shoot him! Shoot him! Shoot him!"

Gatineau's sword chunked into a plank and stuck. As he struggled to get it free, Duncan rolled up to his feet and lunged. Methos breathed out.

Amanda grabbed his gun arm as if to point the gun herself, then, in a fit of impatience and agony, snatched the gun from his hand. Duncan and Andre were locked together, struggling and spinning on the dawn-slicked wood. Then -- the worst had come -- Duncan was again on the ground -- Gatineau raised his sword -- Amanda raised the gun --

\-- Methos had her wrist in a crushing grip, forcing the gun downwards.

"Wait," he hissed through clenched teeth, a feral grin.

Amanda howled, and he was sure she'd have shot him then, if she could, but he clamped her arms to her sides. "Wait--"

\--and Duncan rolled, twisted, was on his feet somehow -- his coat billowing raggedly around him, his hair whipping his face -- and his sword came down.

\---

Amanda went limp in Methos's arms, gasping in relief and sobbing Duncan's name. The quickening began.

It flashed up from the body on the ground, struck Duncan's sword and circled Duncan in a lightning whirlwind, throwing him upright and rigid. The lightning flared and struck, went to ground, and leaped again. Amanda clung to Methos without feeling him, shielding her eyes against the dazzling light and the wind. Duncan raised his arms to embrace the quickening.

Then something else happened. An arc of electricity lashed out and grounded in Methos, throwing Amanda backwards onto the bridge. She breathed through clenched teeth as she watched the weird quickening, the double quickening Duncan had told her about, running back and forth between Duncan and Methos. She cried out as it forked and lashed out again -- and she felt the quickening slam into her.

The ancient energy coursing and circling through them united them together, the three of them, one. Amanda felt them all, their energy crashing like waves against her own -- Duncan's, Methos's, Gatineau's quickening still rising from his body -- images and sounds and feelings flickering and flashing by, old pains and old joys, dark images, pieces of memory, hatreds, unholy lusts, a tearing, rending grief and then finally a kind of cold and glinting peace. She slumped gratefully to the ground and watched in awe as the weird double quickening still coursed between Duncan and Methos.

#

 _Duncan feels Amanda's force leave him, then Methos's. Of Gatineau, he feels nothing, and is glad. He's alone, in the darkness and silence, with the cold earth beneath his back, the black sky above him._

 _Nothing. No sound, no light, no feeling nothing no memory nothing no name no clan nothing._

 _Then the black recedes, like a shadow chased away by the sun. He opens his eyes._

 _For a moment, it's blue, and still. Then he takes a sobbing breath -- and the world rushes in._

  


#

Duncan sat on a log bench in front of his cabin, listening. It was a new pleasure, listening. A rare and astonishing gift. Eventually, the novelty would wear off, and Duncan would take it for granted, but for now it was a revelation.

He felt the jarring hum along his bones that signaled the immortals behind him -- but he'd already heard them coming. He smiled.

"I'm surprised you came back here so soon," Amanda said as she flumped down beside him, sticking her legs out in the cold sunshine.

Methos sat down on his other side, his shoulder touching Duncan's.

"I just… wanted to remind myself why I come here," Duncan said. "It's not a place I have to run to. I come here for renewal. And peace, but now that you two are here I doubt I'll get much of that." He smiled down at Amanda.

"Who needs peace when you've got us?"

Duncan leaned over to kiss her. "Exactly."

"If you two are done snogging, I have a hostess gift." Methos dropped a heavy bag in Duncan's lap.

"Oof." Duncan smiled at the bottle of fine scotch. "Very thoughtful. Shall we celebrate?"

Methos produced three plastic cups. Duncan poured, and they raised their glasses.

"A toast?" Amanda said.

"May you live long and prosper," Methos intoned. Duncan elbowed him.

"To _friends_ ," he said. They drank to that, and sat for a few minutes in comfortable silence. Duncan listened to the wind.

"What do you think brought my senses back?" he said finally.

"Does it matter?" Amanda said. "I'm just glad you're back to your old self."

"There's something different about us," Methos said, staring out over the valley. "I've lived a long time and I've never felt a -- connection like this. There's some kind of power in it. It's--" He picked up a pebble and threw it, watching it arc and fall. "I don't know what it is."

"Fate," Amanda said.

Duncan shivered.

"Fate will do for now." Methos stood up. "But let's not get too philosophical. We're celebrating."

Amanda rose gracefully and offered her hand to Duncan. He took it and bowed over her hand. "I too have a gift," he said with a grin. They both looked at him expectantly. He reached into a pocket and produced three brightly-colored pens.

They laughed, and wound their arms around him, and dragged him into the cabin.

\-- _End_


End file.
